


Yet There Is Method In't

by brynnmck



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-29
Updated: 2007-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Put your coat on, Sammy," says Dean, "it's a special occasion."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet There Is Method In't

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through "Born Under a Bad Sign." Thanks to [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/)**sdwolfpup** for asking me why I don't use more baseball in my fic. :)
> 
> The fifth and final ficlet in a little impromptu [Five Birthdays](http://brynnmck.livejournal.com/97655.html) project.

Dean takes forever in the shower, as usual. For all he razzes Sam about being a girl, Sam's pretty sure that his brother has never met a water heater he couldn't leave begging for mercy. But Sam doesn't mind, unless they're in a hurry; having at least a little time to himself most nights is one of the things that keeps him from smothering Dean in his sleep, so it all works out.

By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom, running a careful hand over his hair, Sam's own hair is almost dry. "Put your coat on, Sammy," says Dean, "it's a special occasion."

Ah. It's going to be one of _those_ nights.

Sam just shrugs and closes up his laptop, follows Dean out into the cool night air. There's a bar within walking distance, which works out well, the same homey hole-in-the-wall they've seen in a hundred towns all across the country. The beers on tap change, and the selection on the jukebox, but there are always peanut shells on the floor and a wasted-looking couple slow-dancing in a corner, a few people smiling and a few people scowling and it's funny, the things that seem to be universal.

"So what are we celebrating?" Sam asks, when they're both settled at the table, cold beer bottles sweating onto the scratched, grimy wood.

"Today," Dean says, gesturing grandly with his bottle, "is the birthday of the great Dorsey Lee Riddlemoser."

Sam gives him the _what the fuck are you on?_ look he'd perfected at the age of about twelve. "Dorsey Lee Riddlemoser."

Dean grins. "Yep."

"There is no possible way that's a real person."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean sighs. "Have I taught you nothing about our great and glorious game? Dorsey Lee Riddlemoser pitched two innings for the Washington Senators on August twenty-second, 1899. He gave up four runs on seven hits for a career ERA of eighteen."

Sam just looks at him. "Dude, I am _so_ blocking baseballreference-dot-com on my laptop when we get back to the room."

Another dramatic sigh, this time accompanied by a sad shake of the head. "I've failed. I've failed you as a brother."

And that puts a weird, reflexive twinge in Sam's chest, but he only upgrades his expression to, _no, seriously, what the fuck are you on?_ , and if Dean notices the tiny flinch, he doesn't comment. "Because I don't know who Dorsey Lee Riddlemoser is?" He has to admit, he's kind of starting to like saying that name. "Neither did you, yesterday."

"But that doesn't mean we shouldn't honor him," Dean points out, all mock solemnity. "Him and his truly shitty ERA."

Sam makes him wait a few seconds, then nods, holds his beer bottle out at an angle. "To Dorsey."

_Clink._

"To Dorsey."

They each take a long pull on their beers, and when the bottles come down, they're both smiling. They've been doing this since not long after Dad died; sometimes Dean starts it, and sometimes it's Sam, and sometimes it's after a hunt goes bad, sometimes—like tonight—for no apparent reason at all. After they'd exorcised Meg, or whatever the hell her real name was, Dean had dragged Sam to crappy bars every night for two weeks, across three different states. They'd drunk half an ocean in cheap beer, and celebrated everything from the anniversary of the Supreme Court's first assembly to Hoodie-Hoo Day, each occasion like a talisman, a punctuation mark, _we're still here, we're still OK, we're still us_.

Sam's pretty sure his freshman-year Psych prof wouldn’t approve, but at least they're giving Google a hell of a workout.

Dean shakes his head again. "Man. Two innings in his whole career, and they're crappy ones. That has to suck. I'm surprised he's not still haunting the park."

"Boundary Park burned down in 1911," Sam answers, only half paying attention, and he doesn't fully focus until he realizes that Dean is staring at him like he just invented the beer-flavored nipple. "What? I can't know things?"

"Yeah, you know _everything_ , but _useful_ things? Sammy. This…" Dean pauses, wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. "This is the proudest day of my life."

"Fuck you," Sam shoots back, but he's grinning, and Dean's grinning, and it's good. They're good. Sam takes a deep breath. "It would suck, though," he says, as casually as he can manage, "just getting in the game for a couple of innings. You need a good, long career to really judge, you know? To make it worthwhile."

It's closer to the truth than they usually get on these nights out, and it's heavy-handed as hell, but Dean pretty much sucks at subtle, anyway, and Sam wants him to hear it.

Which he does. His eyes go thoughtful, that soft-intense Dean stare that Sam can read as easily as a road map. Dean holds out his bottle. "To a good, long career," he says, his voice a little scratchy over the white noise of the jukebox.

The clink is louder this time, decisive. "Damn straight," Sam says firmly, and they both drink, draining the bottles all the way to the bottom.


End file.
